


—but not like this

by branewurms



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Canon Non-Binary Character, Hot Mess, M/M, Masochism, Other, Porn with Feelings, absolute human disaster julian devorak, smut-lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 07:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branewurms/pseuds/branewurms
Summary: Asrian ficlet, smut-lite and aaaaangst. Warning for these two being hot messes, but everything is consensual.———Outside, the world is ending. But in here it doesn’t matter, for just a little while, as Asra hurts him, and hurts him, and hurts him.





	—but not like this

**Author's Note:**

> i am become trashfire, destroyer of dumpsters. aka the real human disaster was inside me all along.

Outside, the world is ending. But in here it doesn’t matter, for just a little while, as Asra hurts him, and hurts him, and hurts him.

It should be a relief. And at the beginning of this thing, this whatever-it-is they’re doing together, it had been. The searing music of physical pain and the impossible, giddy reality of Asra’s hands on his body, all of that had drowned out the awful clamor of the dying and the dead inside Julian’s skull.

But it’s not a relief anymore. Lately, it feels more like he’s just trading out one kind of misery for another.

Does Asra know how much it hurts? Not the physical pain, of course, but _this_. It’s hard to be sure, but Julian doesn’t think so. Asra might be aloof, but Julian doesn’t think he means to be cruel. And wasn’t Julian the one who’d said he’d take whatever he could get?

Yes, he’d said that. And he’d meant it. He’d meant it, but—

Pain has always called to Julian like a siren to a hapless sailor. When it comes to sex, it’s the only thing he _needs_ , the one part of the equation he can’t seem to do without. Even the actual touching part is optional, but not the pain. There’s always something new to find in the depths of pain—in the electric, pins-and-needles prickle of limbs bound too long in one position, the heat of a whip’s strike blooming across skin, the ache of knees on a cold hard floor, the sting of flesh splitting under a blade. It doesn’t matter how many times he feels those things; it’s like ever-changing light through a prism. Everything else feels a little flat in comparison, untextured, not entirely _real._

Certainly, he also likes knowing what’s expected of him, and that sense of submitting to another’s will, of being brought to heel. Bindings, gags, orders—those things can be exquisite. They still aren’t strictly necessary, though, and they only excite him in the right company. Asra is unquestionably the right company. But…

This part he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like the humiliation—at least not like _this_. Maybe if it was only ordinary embarrassment, if it was the mere self-consciousness of making such a spectacle of himself here with Asra’s eyes on him, that might be… exciting, in its own way. But not like this, not this feeling that he’s an afterthought, a mere whim.

And it’s true, isn’t it. To Asra, this is just a whim. 

Julian had never really expected that Asra could love him, or even care much about him, and he’d thought he could live with that. But that look on Asra’s face…

It doesn’t matter. His body responds to it almost as keenly as to the physical pain. He doesn’t understand why; he’d never really had a taste for humiliation in the past. But god help him, he’s responding to it now, as Asra stands coolly over him, bare foot pressing down on Julian’s erection. 

Julian’s arms are bound behind him within his own shirt, the weight of his own body crushing them against the floor. His back is arching up in a reflexive effort to relieve the pressure, but that only prompts Asra to grind his heel down harder.

The pain sets off a spectacular burst of light behind his eyelids, and he gasps through the gag stuffed in his mouth, squirming and pleading unintelligibly. He’s too close. His trousers aren’t even unlaced at this point, hot and confining, and he’s—he can’t—

Asra’s got that thoughtful little smile on his face, like he’s only half paying attention, and has just remembered an old joke. “Are you really about to come, Ilya? But we’ve barely started.”

Julian makes a sound excruciatingly close to a whimper, and shame flushes over every inch of his skin. This isn’t what he wants. He feels like some grotesque oddity dredged up in a fisherman’s net. A pale, grubby, bottom-feeding thing that was never meant to exist under the sun, a thing to be briefly gawked at and then thrown back to the depths. He feels like perfect scum, and he’s never been so achingly, unbearably hard in his whole life. Excepting, of course, the last time he was here. And the time before that, and before that…

Maybe it’s just Asra. Maybe Asra is incapable of doing anything that won’t leave Julian quivering with need.

Still, no matter how enthusiastically his cock responds, he doesn’t _want_ this. Not the reality of it. The knowledge is written there on Asra’s face, plain to see. Asra knows that Julian will do anything, absolutely _anything_. Julian has told him so, over and over, in the most pathetically, mewlingly explicit terms possible. He’d abandoned whatever modicum of dignity he might have ever possessed at the door of this arrangement, at the first hint that Asra might give him even a few scant crumbs of affection. When Julian offers anything— _anything you want, anything at all_ —Asra knows it for the truth, and Asra finds it… _funny_. Or something like funny, anyway, something to amuse him, to pass the time while the world burns down outside.  

Let’s see how much Ilya is willing to debase himself today. Let’s see how he’ll beg.

And Julian can’t say anything. He can’t say anything, because there’s no possible outcome that he can accept. Asra will prove himself to be cruel, really and truly cruel, and Julian doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to _know_ that about Asra—or else Asra will be kind, and this will end. And as much as this hurts, the thought of it ending squeezes his lungs so tight that it feels like he’s dying, and he just _can’t_.

 _Hurt me_ , Julian thinks. _Please. Hurt me, but not like this._


End file.
